Caroling, Caroling
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Christmas Day, two sick men, and incessant, mirthful singing. LeBeau really has his hands full. Can he find a way to make the music stop before he loses his joyful spirit and his mind? Received two 2020 PBA Awards: Bronze for long comedy and Silver for canon character (LeBeau)
1. On the First Day of Christmas

**NOTE: In this story (and most of my stories) Newkirk has the stutter that he has in the German-dubbed version of the series. But since he doesn't talk that much in this story, it's not a major element. Just wanted readers to be aware of this.**

**CAROLING, CAROLING**

**_On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree…_**

The barracks was empty at half past 12 on a sunny Christmas Day, except for Newkirk and Hogan, who were fussing at the table, and LeBeau, who was fussing over them. Outside, a merry group of choristers was intent on spreading Christmas cheer.

"Bloody c-carolers," Newkirk groaned.

"Durn down da soun," Hogan moaned, his head dropping to rest on his forearms.

**_On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…_**

"Beautiful music is uplifting. Medicine for the soul, a balm for the spirit," LeBeau practically sang as he placed a steaming mug in front of each man. "And there's no better time to raise our voice in song than in dark December, as we celebrate the birth of our holy Lord, the bringer of light, our sav …"

"Shut up, you bloody ph-philosopher," Newkirk snapped. Then he sneezed and hacked. Unshaven, dressed in a grimy nightshirt, with a blanket around his shoulders, he looked pitiful, shivering there on the bench.

**_On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…_**

Hogan, seated beside Newkirk, was even more bedraggled, with red, rheumy eyes and a clogged nose that seemed to have swollen his sinuses to twice their normal size. With his chipmunk cheeks and stubble, not even his burgundy silk pajamas could make Hogan look dapper. Or human.

"Oh, my bleeding head," Hogan said.

"You don't say 'bleeding,' Sir. That's me," Newkirk replied testily.

"Don't care," Hogan groaned.

Both men had avoided the nasty cold that was going around the barracks until it finally caught up with them on Christmas Eve. Hogan was sure his head weighed a hundred pounds.

**_On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…_**

"Just sit and drink your tea, both of you," LeBeau counseled with a swat to the back of his English friend's head. He resisted the temptation to do the same to Colonel Hogan. "You'll feel better tomorrow, or the next day at the latest."

"Ow," Newkirk complained. "Didn't your mum ever t-teach you to keep your hands to yourself?" He eyed the mug warily. "What's in this, then? Looks like something you c-c-collected from a drain pipe."

"What's dat fwoating awound in it?" Hogan asked. His enunciation had been shot to hell by congestion and he sounded like a toddler with a baritone.

Great, LeBeau thought. Two of them with speech defects.

At that moment, the door flung open and fifteen carolers flooded into the barracks, determined to convey goodwill. Carter and Kinch were among them. Newkirk and Hogan sat bolt upright.

**_On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me five go-old rings! Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…_**

The carolers all noticed the two men sitting miserably at table, staring at them coolly, and the Frenchman standing behind them, angrily waving a spoon.

"Go away," LeBeau said menacingly.

"Weave us awone," Hogan said, punctuating the sentence with a sneeze. He was trying to sound commanding, and not succeeding in the slightest.

With wide eyes and moving as one, the choir backed out of the door. Kinch quirked an eyebrow at LeBeau, who waved him off ferociously. "Bah," LeBeau said. "Go sing somewhere else!"

LeBeau breathed a sigh of relief as they left, then peered in Newkirk's mug. He adopted the soothing voice one uses with a small child.

"It's tea, as I said," LeBeau said gently. "With fennel and coriander seeds. Nothing to worry about. The main ingredients are tea and honey and some lavender..."

Newkirk made a disgusted face. "I can't drink this swill, Louis. There's too much going on in this mug." Newkirk waved a hand vaguely over the drink and pouted, "I don't even like it when the cabbage touches the potatoes on my plate."

"… and I put in some brandy."

"Hmmm. How much brandy?" Hogan was looking somewhat more interested, and Newkirk was peering around his shoulder to see what LeBeau would say.

"Quite a bit," LeBeau replied. "It's one-third brandy. Nice and warm, too. Drink up. Then go rest in your bunks."

**_On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, six geese a-laying, five go-old rings! Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves…_**

"W-why is that song about b-birds anyway?" Newkirk mulled as he sipped. "Who'd want a bleedin' bird for Christmas?"

"I fought you wiked birds," Hogan mumbled.

"Not the kind that flies," Newkirk answered. "They're the w-worst birds."

Thankfully, the song was fading. LeBeau tipped an ear to the sound. "They're heading toward the higher-numbered barracks."

"Fank God," Hogan wheezed. Then he paused and looked at Newkirk. "What come after six?"

"Seven," Newkirk said.

"No, how many birds?" Hogan was trying his best, but it came out "buuuuds." He took a long drink.

"Seven," Newkirk repeated.

Hogan glared at him, so Newkirk elaborated, "Seven swans a-swimming, Sir. We're nearly at the end of the buuuuds. I mean b-birds."

"Den what?" Hogan coughed.

Newkirk counted off on his fingers. "Eight mmmmaids a-mmmilking. Nine ladies dancing. Ten lords a-leaping. Eleven p-p-pipers piping…" Sneeze.

"Then twelb dwummers dwumming. Get dem back for dat part, WuhBeau," Hogan commanded. "It's my favowite." His head was sliding off his elbows and he was starting to drool a little.

"_D'accord, mon Colonel_," LeBeau lied. He draped a blanket around Colonel Hogan's shoulders and checked his mug. Empty. Perfect.

The Colonel's head hit the table, and the snoring commenced. Newkirk, judging from the glazed look in his eyes and the silly smile forming around his lips, wasn't far behind.

That was when LeBeau heard it, coming toward them.

**_Es ist ein Ros entsprungen aus einer Wurzel zart…_**

The Germans were coming.

(to be continued…)


	2. Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming

_I want to apologize up front for using some German lyrics in this, because I know that makes it harder for some readers to track. You don't really need to know the translation - just that it is a beautiful and traditional German Christmas carol that was corrupted by the Nazis into a patriotic song. Also, it is loosely translated into English in the fifth paragraph. Now, the story continues..._

**XXX**

Outside of Barracks 2, the melody grew louder. LeBeau lowered Newkirk's wobbling head to the table and covered his slumbering friend's ears as the voices came closer.

**…_Wie uns die Alten sungen, von Jesse kam die Art…_**

**_Und hat ein Blümlein bracht, mitten im kalten Winter, wohl zu der halben Nacht.*_**

Suddenly another voice took up the song. A close-by voice.

**_A spotless rose is blowing, sprung from a tender root..._**

_Mon Dieu_, what was that racket?

LeBeau looked down at the table and realized it was Newkirk, mostly asleep and singing tunelessly in a low murmur. Louis LeBeau, lover of beauty and music, suddenly sensed his eardrums were bleeding. He clamped his hand over Newkirk's mouth to suppress the caterwauling.

"No! No! Not you too!" he pleaded with the heavens. "No singing in stereo!"

Once again, the door to the barracks flung open. This time, eight guards with a dusting of snow on their Luftwaffe uniforms thronged into the room, with the most peculiar expressions on their faces. The corners of their mouths moved upward and outward. The muscles around their eyes were contracting. They were … Good grief, they were smiling as they sang heartily.

**_Das Röslein, das ich meine, davon Isaias sagt, ist Maria die reine die uns das Blümlein bracht._**

The chorus of guards looked so sincere, and harmonized so beautifully, that LeBeau pasted a smile on his face, hoping the music would soon come to an end. Then he gestured with his hand to tune it down a little. The guards, alas, did not get the hint. They moved on to an enthusiastic rendition of the next verse.

That was when LeBeau snapped.

"STOP SINGING!" he bellowed. The German guards looked stunned at the lungpower of one so small, but they stopped. LeBeau softened his voice and pleaded. "Can't you see I have sick men in here? And what's worse, you're making this one sing along!" As he said it, he smacked Newkirk's head a little harder than he intended, causing the Englishman to jolt upright.

"What? What? I didn't take it!" Newkirk sputtered as he woke to a room full of powder-covered Germans. Alarmed, he jostled the table and sneezed three times. The third sneeze was so harsh, so resonant, and so wet that it woke up Colonel Hogan.

"Is it time for twelb dwummers dwumming?" a bleary-eyed Hogan asked nasally. "And why is it waining?"

"No drummers," LeBeau said soothingly. "No rain. Go back to sleep."

"I want a dwum set for Chwistmas, Dad. Pwease? I'll only pwactice when you'we not home," Hogan mumbled through his nose, then coughed pathetically.

LeBeau shook his head vigorously in an attempt to make the madness flee from him. It didn't work. He crossed his arms and looked wearily at the guards.

Corporal Langenscheidt stepped out of the pack and smiled shyly. "We heard they were sick. That's why we came to spread the joy of the season." He leaned conspiratorially toward LeBeau. "We're not supposed to sing these words to the song, but this is the version we all grew up with. Most Germans learn to sing it as little children."

"Wait. What do you mean?" LeBeau asked. A sentimentalist at heart, he was moved just a tiny bit by the mention of a childhood favorite.

"We're supposed to sing the new version—_**uns ist ein Licht erstanden, in einer dunklen Winternacht**_\- an old guard named Pfeiffer spat out. "An uplifting song about the Third Reich." He shook his head in annoyance. "With all due respect to Herr Goebels, Nazis are terrible lyricists."

_**So ist deutschen Landen, der Glaube neu entfacht**_, another guard snickered. "Ridiculous."

"Well, I'm very sorry to hear it, and I'm glad you are sticking to tradition," LeBeau said, adding to himself, _even if it is in a barbaric tongue_. "And it was very nice of you to entertain us," he added graciously. "But these men need their rest." He craned his neck around to search for a familiar face.

"Where's Schultz, anyway?" LeBeau asked.

"Home with his wife, for …" - Langenscheidt consulted his wristwatch – "a few hours longer. He'll be on duty by 1600. I'm sure he will check in on his favorite prisoners as soon as he returns. Frohes Weihnachtsfest!" the Corporal added cheerfully as he pushed his fellow guards toward the door.

"Joyeuses fêtes," LeBeau offered as the Germans streamed out the door.

"Fanks for stopping by," Hogan croaked from his seat at the table. "Don't forget my dwums, Santa," he whispered. Then he was semi-comatose again, his head dropping onto the snoring, snorting Englishman, who responded to the thump on his back just long enough to spout some gibberish.

"Gah bess ess eff a won," Newkirk jabbered in his sleep.

_Help_, LeBeau thought. _He is talking complete nonsense._

(To be continued)

**XXX**

**NOTES:** Maybe some of you may be able to guess what Newkirk was trying to say in the next-to-last paragraph. ; )

The German song is known in English as "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" or (as Newkirk sings it) "A Spotless Rose." I'm not even going to try translating the German lyrics. The translation comes out really awkward because wording of the hymn in German is very old-fashioned, just like the English version is. The important thing is that the song is about the fulfillment of Isaiah's prophecy about the birth of a Messiah, and the idea is that a rose (Jesus) is sprouting from the branches of the tree of Jesse. It's originally a German song. It dates to 1599 and was translated into other languages centuries later. (And I'm not trying to preach here. It's just a really beautiful song and I'm trying to explain it.)

When the guards come in singing this song, they laugh about how Christmas was ideologically twisted to fit Nazi ideology, and traditional songs were rewritten to celebrate Hitler as a savior of the world. They "sanitized" the songs to remove references to the Jewish heritage of Jesus or the Judeo-Christian idea of a deity. The traditional German version of this carol became: _A light came to us __on a dark winter night. In German lands, faith is rekindled. The sun is shining! After many hard days there must be victory and peace._


	3. Santa Claus Is Coming to Town

Somehow, Newkirk and Hogan managed to shuffle themselves off to bed, giving LeBeau a much-needed break to have a quiet cup of coffee and plan his next caregiving move.

With Hogan tucked away in his quarters and Newkirk snoring in his top bunk, LeBeau thought through his afternoon: Make a nice chicken broth with a quarter of a hen that he had fished out of the trash behind the sergeant's mess. Whip up a cough remedy from honey, some bruised onions and cayenne. Get Hogan and Newkirk to breathe steam from a bowl of boiling water infused with eucalyptus and make sure not to burn them in the process, because he was in no mood to make salves today. And experiment with cinnamon and clove tea.

It was a pity, LeBeau mused, that there was no lemon to be had, because then a lavender and honey tea would have worked. What was going on in Italy and Spain, anyway? Why weren't lemons moving across Europe? In the culinary-political map of the continent that LeBeau carried in his mind, if Italy and Spain couldn't be Allies, couldn't they at least be citrus suppliers?

LeBeau's hopes of getting things accomplished, letting the two men rest and thinking inspiring thoughts about food were shattered when Carter came breezing into the barracks, singing in his smooth, bright, warm tenor.

_**You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town…**_

"He's not coming to _this_ town, Carter. I'm sure Père Noël and his donkey Gui trotted right past us last night," LeBeau said glumly. "Now, will you please pipe down?"

Carter's spirits were flying too high to be pulled to earth by what he heard as a polite suggestion. He danced playfully toward LeBeau, still singing, and swung him around. For a clumsy guy, Carter was surprisingly light on his feet and he led Louis in an effortless and merry foxtrot.

_**He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake, he knows when you've been bad or good…**_

"You know what that means," added Kinch, entering the barracks on Carter's heels. "Newkirk is in a whole heap of trouble." He delivered a playful punch to the upper arm of the sleeping Englishman, then joined in the song with Carter. So did five other men who were streaming back into the room, bringing the chilly December air with them. They shook the walls as they belted:

_**So be good for goodness sake! Oh! You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm tell you why…**_

"Then why are you shouting?" LeBeau bellowed as he wriggled out of Carter's grasp. "Please! No singing! And absolutely no dancing! These men need sleep!" He gestured angrily toward his poor Pierre.

"What men?" Carter asked. "I only see Newkirk, and he can sleep through anything." That seemed to be an accurate assessment. The only movement Newkirk had made was when his jaw suddenly went slack on the "Oh!" and amplified his snore.

"Anyway, it's 'pout,' LeBeau," Kinch added. "Not 'shout.' 'Pout.' It means to fuss and make that annoyed face that Newkirk's always wearing, with his lips puffed out." He demonstrated. He looked ridiculous.

_Ça alors_! Kinch was a font of information about the peculiarities of the English language, LeBeau thought irritably. Still, 'pout' was a good word to add to his vocabulary. He'd have to remember it next time Newkirk made that duck face.

LeBeau was allowing himself a little smirk at the pleasant thought of baiting Pierre when the creak of a certain floorboard and the squeak of a certain hinge caught everyone's notice. The door to Colonel Hogan's quarters slowly swung open.

Someone was not happy.

**XXX**

"Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" was a very big hit in the USA in 1934. And Larry Hovis had a wonderful singing voice.


	4. O Holy Night

"Fellas," Hogan croaked, "Could you keep it down?" His hair was mussy, his eyes were heavy and he was shivering even though he was wrapped in his plush blue bathrobe.

"Uh, sorry, Colonel, Sir," Carter replied. "We got a little carried away."

"Yeah, OK. Wook, guys, I'm a music wover myself. But we don't have a mission tonight, and chances are we'll be back in bidness tomowwow. You've got to wet me sweep while I can," Hogan said, sounding more congested than ever. He paused to blow his nose.

The honking that ensued was so high-pitched and disturbing that not even Newkirk could sleep through it. He jolted upright again, this time rolling dangerously close to the edge of his bunk.

"What? What? 'E took it, not me!" he protested. Kinch caught him by an arm and a leg and rolled him back to safety before he could plunge to the floor.

"Steady," Kinch said. He had just patted Newkirk on the back and adjusted his blanket when a low droning, warble began, in a gravelly voice that was pure pain to listen to:

_**Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, would you please to put a penny in the poor man's hat…**_

"Can it, Newkirk," Hogan snapped from clear across the barracks. The message, alas, did not penetrate Newkirk's thick, congested head. Instead, he sang in his sleep even louder.

_**If you 'aven't got a penny, a **__**ha'penny**__** will do, if you haven't got a ha'penny, then God bless you…**_

"Gee, that's a nice thought, Newkirk. My mom always said Christmas is about charity and kindness and doing things for others, not just getting gifts for yourself," Carter prattled.

"It's a begging song," Kinch interpreted. "He's not offering money. He's asking for it."

"Oh," Carter said, crestfallen, disappointed once again that his natural optimism was no match for his English friend's cynical outlook. "Yeah, that sounds a little more like Newkirk."

Then Carter brightened. "Well, at least he said 'please.' I mean, I guess the spirit of Christmas is getting through to him because normally Newkirk would just take the money, he wouldn't ask politely, and I guess it's OK to ask for what you need, especially if you're poor and everyone else is having a goose for Christmas and you don't even have a ha'penny – which is how much, exactly? A nickel, maybe? Because that's next to nothing."

"Carter?" Hogan said, "Shut up."

"Shutting up, Sir. Sorry."

The door to Hogan's office slammed shut and the Colonel could be heard hacking and sneezing on his way back to his bunk.

Kinch spoke up. "It's less than a penny, actually, Carter. See, you'd take the value of a pound, which is $4.03 now, and divide by 480 because that's how many ha'pennies there are in a pound..."

"Gee, that's really interesting, Kinch. Thanks!" Carter said cheerfully, all hint of conflict evaporating.

"Toffee-nosed know-all," Newkirk sniped from his slumbers.

Kinch quirked an eye at Newkirk, then deliberately yanked off his blanket. "Jackass," he said.

**XXX**

The conscious members of the team sat at the table together through the early afternoon, quietly helping LeBeau peel and slice potatoes for their evening meal and playing a listless game of poker. Around the barracks room, other men were similarly engaged, playing checkers and cards, writing letters and reading in their bunks. They'd used up their Red Cross Christmas food parcels the night before for a splendid Christmas Eve feast, leaving only a few extra rations for Christmas night, so the holiday mood was flickering out.

The card game wasn't half as interesting with Newkirk out of the mix, but they stuck to it for a solid hour. LeBeau was on the verge of cleaning out all the other players when Carter bluffed everyone on a bold bet and swept the kitty clean. Well taught by Newkirk, he exited the game at that point, effectively ending it, to the dismay of LeBeau, Kinch, Olsen and Baker.

It was half past three and all was quiet in Barracks 2 when the well trained voices of the men of Barracks 16 advanced on their dwelling. The barracks chief, Geoffrey Ross-Medlow, happened to be a cathedral choir director in civilian life, and every man in Barracks 16 had been hand-picked for his diction, rhythm, pitch, breath control and ability to blend and balance properly. They were, perhaps inevitably, nearly all English and nearly all former boy choristers. Ross-Medlow had managed to procure four extra bunks and squeeze them into the barracks to accommodate two particularly promising Americans, a Canadian and a New Zealander.

There was no denying that they were good, and their Christmas repertoire was a nice break from a steady patter of Gilbert and Sullivan. Thus, it was hard to complain when they let themselves through the door of Barracks 2, singing an exquisite arrangement of Oh Holy Night and Silent Night, complete with descants.

It started out charmingly enough. LeBeau remembered his triumphs with this part as a boy soprano, but out of respect for the musicianship, he sang along only in his head, and –of course—in French, as the tenors began:

_**Minuit, chrétiens, c'est l'heure solennelle où l'Homme Dieu descendit jusqu'à nous…**_

Such a lovely melody, he thought. Such profound truths. He looked at Newkirk, smiling peacefully in his sleep, and felt calm, even though he knew his English friend was an utter pagan.

Then the chorus of 20 men erupted in one vast swell of sound.

_**Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices! Oh, night divine! Oh, night when Christ was born!**_

As the voices reached a crescendo, the air was split with the bluest language that had been heard in Luft Stalag 13 in, well, probably ever. It was in French and English, there was nothing holy about it, and it was issuing forth from the foul mouths of LeBeau and Newkirk.

And if anything, LeBeau realized with a touch of mortification and humility, his command of vulgarities, obscenities and insults was even more comprehensive than that of his impious friend Newkirk.


	5. Softly Falls the Snow

"No more singing! THERE MUST BE NO MORE SINGING!" LeBeau was wild-eyed as he faced down Sergeant Ross-Medlow and his 19 hardy choristers.

The mostly-British ensemble burst into a cacophony of protests, in a jumble of accents and dialects that probably would have been incomprehensible even to Professor Henry Higgins. Kinch, meanwhile, was stifling Newkirk's profane outburst with a little too much enthusiasm, clasping a hand across his mouth and holding him down on the bunk until sleep claimed him once again.

The ensemble watched in awe for a moment. No one had ever shut Newkirk up so quickly before, and every man was taking mental notes.

As the ensemble's minds drifted back to music, a reedy Welshman named Corporal Bryn piped up.

"We haven't even got to the arrangement of 'Silent Night,' and that's the best bit," he whined.

_A counter-tenor_, LeBeau sniffed. _Oh, please_, he thought with a roll of his eyes, _all agility, no power_.

LeBeau was growing weary of being the bad guy, but he needed to let Hogan and Newkirk rest. And frankly, he was tiring of efforts at bonhomie and cheer. They were prisoners, for heaven's sake. Locked up. He'd be in favor of caroling if he was freely roaming the snowy streets of the Marais on Christmas Day. But this was a bad joke.

With the skill of a miniature Alasatian, LeBeau herded the men toward the door. Being mostly British and non-Newkirk, they were too polite to decline to leave. LeBeau stepped out of the barracks, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he went, and pointed with a flat hand. "If you go just down there, and then one barracks to the left and then make a quick right, you'll find the Gospel singers in Barracks 27. They can teach you 'Go Tell It on the Mountain' and a lot of spirituals. Won't that be fascinating?"

"Jolly good!" Ross-Medlow intoned. As the ensemble ambled off, LeBeau could hear Ross-Medlow telling another sergeant, "It's terribly unfortunate Group Captain Crittendon isn't here. I think he's more a music aficionado than Hogan and his ilk are. Still, good chaps, what?"

LeBeau stood outside by the door for a moment and dropped his head into his hands. He was weary of being the resident nursemaid, cook and bouncer, but Hogan and Newkirk were his responsibility. No matter how he tried to shy away from it, he was the best at keeping his team healthy. Kinch and Carter had other things to do. Wilson had his hands full in the infirmary. LeBeau knew that he alone was up above most of the time, armed with pot, spoon, a grasp of nutrition and the ability to read a thermometer under most lighting conditions.

And this time his patients were his closest colleagues here. His friends. Hogan was usually strong as an ox, and it was hard to see him sick. Newkirk was prone to picking up every germ that passed through the place. LeBeau had nursed him back from death's dark door more than once. He wasn't going to fail this time. Their health was critical to their mission.

LeBeau returned to the relative warmth of the barracks, stirred his chicken broth and looked at the healthy men around him. He smiled affectionately. Here they were, on another Christmas day—the men Colonel Hogan called his "happy band of brothers." There was no better description. They worked together, played together, fought together. They celebrated and grieved together. They took on the enemy together. And yes, he thought with a smile, sometimes they sang together.

His eyes shifted to the sick ones—Newkirk, sleeping and snoring nasally on his bunk, Hogan rattling the walls from behind the closed door to his quarters. LeBeau sighed. Sleep would help more than anything. It always did.

**XXX **

An hour later, LeBeau was still musing about Christmas and traditions and family and brotherhood when he heard a deep, rumbling hum approaching the barracks. A baritone, he thought, and not bad. And at least he was quietly humming, not singing.

As the sound drew closer, LeBeau recognized the footfall. It was Sergeant Schultz. It would be good to see him.

Or it would have been, but for the fact that he was coming through the barracks door in full song.

_**In den Herzen ist's warm, still schweigt Kummer und Harm,**__** s**__**orge des Lebens verhallt,**__**  
**__**freue Dich, Christkind kommt bald!**_

LeBeau sighed. It was half past five. Hogan and Newkirk were going to have to get up for rollcall anyway.

_**XXX**_

_NOTE_

_Schultz sings the second verse of "Softly Falls the Snow," which has the most profound lyrics: "In our hearts it's warm, silent are sorrow and grief, life's worries fade away: Rejoice! The Christ Child will soon be here."_


	6. Sleep in Heavenly Peace

Schultz entered the barracks with a broad smile on his face, and performed a verse with dignity and passion. The man knew how to work an audience.

_**Bald ist heilige Nacht, Chor der Engel erwacht, Hört nur wie lieblich es schallt:**__**Freue dich, Christkind kommt bald!**_

Newkirk sat up on his bunk, looking sleepy and sweaty but smiling softly, as Schultz sang the beautiful melody. Hogan appeared at his door, his face light, his eyes merry.

As Schultz concluded and took a small bow, Hogan stepped toward the table and translated the lyrics, reciting in a croaky and nasal voice:

_**Soon his journey he'll take, choir of angels awake, hear how sublime it does ring, the Christ Child's birth we will sing.**_

"Lovely, that," Newkirk said from his perch on his bunk. "It's, it's called 'Softly Falls the Snow' in English, LeBeau. We used to sssing it in S-Sunday School."

All eyes turned up to him in shock.

"What? I had a proper upbringing, I did. Mavis and mmy mum saw to that," Newkirk said indignantly. Then he grinned. "I was on my w-way to altar boy until they caught me looking fffunny at the collection plate." He jumped down to the floor and stretched, then took a seat at the table beside Kinch, who greeted him with a warm smile and an arm around his shoulder.

Hogan slid into his place at the table too, sitting beside Carter and clapping his forearm warmly. "Whew, that was a good rest," Hogan said. "Thanks for making sure we got some peace and quiet, LeBeau. What's in that pot? And is there enough for Schultzie?"

"Of course, Schultz can have a bite to eat," LeBeau said. Standing at the stove and stirring the broth, he looked at Hogan apologetically. "But peace and quiet, _mon colonel_? I couldn't get anyone to shut up." He consulted his watch. "We've been bombarded by Christmas carols for the past six hours!"

"Well, if you're going to be b-b-bombarded on Christmas Day, that's the stuff to be b-bombarded with, innit?" Newkirk said. "Come on, now. W-what have you cooked up?"

"Chicken broth," LeBeau said simply. "I've got some boiled potatoes and carrots to go with it. And I think there's still some plum pudding for dessert."

"Perfect," Hogan said. "Bring it on. I could eat a horse."

"You don't sound like a toddler anymore, Sir," LeBeau said. Oops. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. "I mean to say, your enunciation is better."

"I've been g-giving him lessons," Newkirk said. Everyone laughed at that.

While his friends sat at the table and ate, LeBeau hovered at the stove, picking at a dish he'd prepared for himself, but not quite ready to eat yet. There were some things one shouldn't do on a full stomach.

He climbed on a chair and cleared his throat. "A_ttention, mes potes. Joyeux noël aux meilleurs amis qu'un homme ait jamais eus. C'est mon cadeau à vous tous_."

"What'd he say?" Carter asked. "It sounded nice, but what was it?"

"Wait for it, Carter," Newkirk whispered. "He said something about 'best friends.' And _cadeau_ is a present. That's all you need to know."

LeBeau drew himself up to his full height, closed his eyes, then sang in his glorious tenor:

_**Douce nuit, sainte nuit, dans les cieux! L'astre luit. Le mystère annoncé s'accomplit**__**, c**__**et enfant sur la paille endormi, c'est l'amour infini! C'est l'amour infini!**_

Carter's silky voice joined in as LeBeau sang the second verse, making it a round:

_**Silent night, holy night, shepherds quake at the sight. Glories stream from Heaven afar, heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah. Christ the Saviour is born, Christ the Saviour is born.**_

Then Schultz added his rich baritone to the round. The three voices soared, as each man held his own part. The blending of languages deepened the emotional impact of perhaps the most beautiful Christmas carol.

_**Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht! Die der Welt Heil gebracht, aus des Himmels goldenen Höhn, uns der Gnaden Fülle läßt seh'n, Jesum in Menschengestalt, Jesum in Menschengestalt.**_

By the sixth verse, Newkirk had taken the song title to heart and slumped into Kinch's shoulder, snoring once again. But when the voices stilled, he started in with a tuneless squall:

_**Sleep in heavenly pe-eace, sle-ep in heavenly peace  
**_

"You sound very nice, Pierre," LeBeau said without a hint of sarcasm. "Now go back to sleep."

And all was silence.


End file.
